# Read the first page of The First Ladies by Marie Benedict

Read the opening of The First Ladies by Marie Benedict free, no signup. Eleanor Roosevelt and a Black activist forge a world-changing friendship.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/the-first-ladies-marie-benedict
- Genre: Historical fiction
- Year: 2023
- ISBN: 9780593440308
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780593440308&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780593440308
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780593440308

## The opening

Nearly fifty blocks whir past my cab window as I ride through the upper reaches of Manhattan from the Hotel Olga in Harlem. Traveling toward the Upper East Side, I feel as though, somewhere, I've crossed an invisible line. The shades of complexions fade from colored to white. Not that it matters to me. I have never been hindered by the views and prejudices of others, not even the Ku Klux Klan.

My cab stops in front of a limestone town house amidst the expanse of brick facades on East 65th Street. I exit the cab, then pause before I mount the few steps to the front door. The number 47 is on the left of the wrought iron gate, while 49 is on the opposite side. Yet there is only a single entrance.

Odd, I think, and a bit confusing to have one door for two residences. I certainly hope Mrs. Roosevelt gets along with her neighbor.

The door is opened by a young woman wearing a white-collared black uniform. For a moment, she stands still, her eyebrows raised and her blue eyes wide with astonishment.

“I am Mrs. Mary McLeod Bethune, here for the luncheon,” I say.

She recovers. “Yes, ma’am.” As she gestures for me to enter, her face becomes, once again, the expressionless servant’s mask.

MARIE BENEDICT AND VICTORIA CHRISTOPHER MURRAY

Chatter and laughter float in from down the hall. “Ma’am?” she asks, reaching for my coat. I shrug out of my black fur-collar wrap and pat my hat to make sure it hasn’t tilted.

The young lady leads me down a hallway darkened by mahogany panels. As we approach the sound of voices, I listen to the medley of tones, searching for the accents and intonations that will give me clues to who these women are and where they’re from.

When I step into the drawing room, the gleaming chandeliers, the velvet burgundy drapes framing the large windows, the deep chintz sofas, and a crackling fire offer a warmer welcome than the women inside.

Unfazed, I move to the walls covered with bookcases. Glorious leather-bound volumes line the shelves. How much my curious students at Bethune-Cookman College would enjoy and appreciate a library like this.

If I didn’t know this was a luncheon for women leaders of national clubs and organizations—some of the most powerful women in America—I’d think I’d stepped into a fashion show.

Each woman wears a different variation of the latest styles; there are skirts and sweater sets and drop-waist dresses, and all, of course, are wearing silk stockings. Quite the contrast with my ankle-length navy dress trimmed in velvet.

I peruse the bookshelves, noticing that the conversation dips to a whisper whenever I skirt close to a group. As I draw near women I recognize from my position as president of the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs, I smile and nod, but I only occasionally receive a nod in return. Most often, my acknowledgments are met with steel-cold glances. Funny how the same women who talk with me about the advancement of women in a formal meeting space open to whites and Negroes pretend not to even see me in this social setting. Instead of allowing this to smart, I read the titles as I survey the books: a biography here, a novel there, a historical study in between.

“Ah, Dr. Bethune. What a pleasure.”

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